NUMBERS DO LIE

  Most folks put a lotta faith in numbers. How many poor souls are out of work? Who's ahead in the election polls? What's the favorite toilet paper? And, what's the crime rate? I can't vouch for the the other numbers but I can the crime rate stuff. It's pure bull hockey. Or at least it used to be.

  In the early 60's the FBI decided that all police agencies--not just them--should keep track of certain crimes and send the results, annually, to J Edgar's boy's. It was voluntary and most agencies saw it as a giant pain in the keester, and worse, a way to keep track of how successful they really were at suppressing crime. So most departments didn't comply until they were forced to, and then started using inventive methods of keeping track of crimes and rate of clearance.

 Since an increase in crime might cause a Chief to start packing his suitcase, it was tempting to just not count some crimes. One agency in Lee County didn't count bicycle thefts for years. There were too many of them. Would drive the larceny rate over the top.

  Some marked the crimes down, so the "important" ones didn't grow too quickly. An armed robbery would become a simple theft, and so forth.

  Another trick was to mark crimes as solved that were still on the books. Once an Investigator at the Sheriff's Office, when a notorious burglar died, cleared every outstanding burglary on the books. The thinking was it would make them look good on the annual report and the deceased sure as hell wasn't going to hand them up.

 An embarrassing problem arose when the NPD caught another prolific burglar who admitted to the ones he'd done in the City, plus those he'd done in the County. All of which had been cleared off the books by the Investigator with an eraser and blamed on the dead guy.

  I'm sure they're more honest today but I still don't put much stock in the numbers. Why? The percentage thing, for one. If you're a small town, one burglar can ruin the crime rate. Say you average 50 B&E's a year and a good burglar comes to town. Hell, he can knock out 50 by himself causing  a 100% increase in burglaries. And a Chief looking for a suitcase.

  And too many things impact the crime rate, the cops being low on the list. Once the NYPD pulled all the Cops out of one sector and put them in another, doubling the force in the second. The crime rate changed in neither.
 Putting away career criminals is the best way to control crime. There are just a few A-holes out there doing the majority of the crimes. When they are in prison, the numbers show it. We are very lucky, in Collier County, to have one of the best Cops around for busting career criminals. His name is Meade Holland. And the local crime rate shows it.

 So, if you feel safe--and you should here--your Cops are doing a good job. Don't worry about what you hear on the news.

THE CAPTAIN AMERICA GANG

  Naples, because of it's many stinkin' rich citizens, was always a target for burglars and jewel thieves. When most of the wealthy folks lived in Port Royal, it drew high-end thieves like flies to a dung pile. Or a politician's speech. When Alligator Alley opened, it made Naples even more attractive, being only a short drive from the cess pool of East Coast scum, in Miami and Fort Lauderdale.

 One such group was the Captain America gang, named for the leader who looked like the Peter Fonda character in Easy Rider and rode a stars and stripes painted Harley chopper.

  The Capt and his gang were good, and once hit us fifteen times or so in one afternoon, all in Port Royal, and in all selecting the best jewelry. You could tell when you'd been hit by a pro. A good jewel thief would sort the costume jewelry from the real right on the spot, leaving the junk jewelry laying in a neat pile beside the jewel box or safe. Capt America was one such thief.

  After we got hammered, I got on the phone to Lauderdale to see what top-level thieves they had working, knowing we had no one in town who could pull off jobs this slick. The East coast and Naples shared the same thieves and they had an idea right away who it was.

 "Capt America," the detective said, "we found a dumped Caddy on this end of the alley this morning and wondered where he'd been."

 I asked him to explain.

 "The Capt always steals a car when he's going on a job. A Caddy or a Lincoln, something that won't look out of place in a rich neighborhood. He always works in the afternoon, and folks seeing just another Cadillac or such, think nothing of it. After the job they dump the car."

  It sounded like our gang. "And he only takes the good stuff, sorts it out on the spot. Never seen him make a mistake, taking paste jewelry for real."

 Yep, it was the Capt.

 "We're on him, the detective said and he'll slip up sooner or later." In about two months he did. And, facing some heavy time, he was negotiating. I went to Lauderdale to see if he had anything for us.

  The Capt sure did. He admitted the Port Royal jobs and even said he'd point them out. And did he ever. The Capt could tell you the order he did the burglaries in, and what he took---which was quickly disposed of to a fence.

  His memory wasn't just phenomenal for Naples, either. In all, he fessed up to over 1200 burglaries, on both coasts. All with the same detail on how they'd been done and what he'd stolen.

 I was astounded at the time, but later found out that this sharp memory is common in some criminals. Serial killers are the most noted. The actual time spent during the murder is a high point in their life--what they live for and what other die for. They remember every detail. The Boston Strangler remembered, while he was struggling with a victim, they knocked a pack of cigarettes off the radiator. It was a pack of Winstons, he said.

The investigators went back to the crime scene and found a pack of Winstons behind the radiator. 

  That good memory eventually cost Albert DeSalvo his life.

  

NEED ADDRESS

TERRY MCMANUS--MY EMAIL CRASHED AND I LOST YOUR ADDRESS. PLEASE SEND ME AN EMAIL.

PRAGMATIC POLICING-WHATEVER WORKS

 Cops in Naples were once mandated to get the job done--whatever it took. And few questions were seldom asked as to how you did it. I'm sure our jurisdiction wasn't unique at the time. It reminded me of how the Marine Corps often got the job done.

 I was fortunate enough to attend the Navy and Marine Corps boot camps. (Fortunate because it changed my life for the good) I went to the Navy bootcamp, because I was in the reserves, and the Marines when I entered the regulars. Quite a difference. Lets take for example swimming instructions.

 Obviously, since both services go to sea, being able to swim is vital. Boats sink, and Marines, during landing, jump into the water where footing is sometimes treacherous. So, in boot camp your were tested on your swimming proficiency--if any. In the Navy they asked that everyone who could not swim go to a certain area where they received instructions. Sometimes the coaching required that they come back a few times, until the skills were mastered. The Marines handled it a little differently.

 All those who could not swim were told to line up along the side of the deep end of the pool. Then, the instructors shoved them in. This, of course, caused panic and the potential drownees thrashed and beat the water trying to get back where they could grab the edge of the pool. That was impossible since the instructors had long, aluminum poles they used to push the terrified paddlers back into the middle of the pool. The only exit was at the other end of the pool, requiring a lengthy swim.

  It worked just great. Brutal? Yes. Terrifying? You bet. But, effective? In our platoon everyone was a swimmer within fifteen-minutes.

 Since a lotta former Marines go into police work, I have a suspicion that some of that "whatever works" came with them.

RALPH ROGER DODGER

  There was a time when the guns seized in the line of duty could be kept by the Cop who seized them. That was unless the judge wanted it. (There were very few seized hunting rifles that got by Judge Stanley) Most of the guns seized where junk and the officer would just throw them in the Gulf. Occasionally, you'd come across a keeper.

 There was a local character we'll call Ralph Roger Dodger, who was alway good for a new gun. Ralph always carried and he was the least qualified to be anywhere near a gun. A nutcase. That's why we disarmed him so often.

  Ralph was always modifying guns or trying to make guns out of things that weren't intended for that use. On one memorable occasion, he modified a tear gas pen-like shooter into a .38. And promptly shot himself in the chest with it.

  Then he got in the "silencer" business. The Feds have strict laws against the manufacture of silencers but Ralph Roger built them anyway and advertised his wares so well the Feds  locked him away for a few years.

  He was always into something to aggravate folks, even his own family. Ralph Roger lived in an apartment over a famous Naples restaurant his family owed. One day a family member called us saying that Ralphy had gone insane and was up in his apartment threatening to kill anyone who came near him. I was in the area and took the call.

  Walking up the outside stairway I could hear him yelling inside the apartment. I knocked on the door and announced who I was.

  "You better get away from that door," Ralphy said, "or I'll blow you away."

  Being in a bad mood that day, I had no time for Ralphy's bull squat. "Ralph Roger," I said, "if I have to take this door down I'm gonna come in there and kick your ass so far up between your shoulder blades you'll have to unzip your fly to drink a Slurpee." Or something like that.

  "Oh, okay," Ralph Roger said, opening the door and handing me his gun.

  Ralph Roger was occasionally "insane" but he wasn't a fool.

Thanks to Dave Dampier for the reminder.

A MOMENT TO REMEMBER

  A Cop meets a lotta folks. Most are just regular people, but a few are different. Some infamous. And a few famous. Someone sent me one of Ron Reagan's jokes today. It caused me to reflect on a very special day when I got to be one of his body guards.

 He was running for President and making  a whirlwind tour of Florida. The Secret Service advance men had visited a few days before, checking the lay of the land and making preparations for the visit. I had worked with these heroes--yes they are American heroes--many times before but this time it was special. Mr Reagan was a person I admired. Most politicians I disdained, so he was in a select group to me.

 I believe the advance agent saw that and asked if I'd like to be on Mr Reagan's closeup security team for the visit. I jumped at the chance. He gave me a small, circular badge that clipped on my pocket. It designated that I was allowed to be close enough to Reagan to touch him.

 That day, the helicopter landed in Cambier Park, and suddenly there he was, just like in the movies but larger than I expected, more vibrant. He strode swiftly to the outside podium and commenced his remarks. At the side, I talked with an agent, whose eyes constantly scanned the crowd.

  "He gives that speech very convincingly," I said.

 "He should," said the agent, "he gives it every day. Ten times today already, and we have three stops to go."

  "Seems like a regular guy," I said.

 "He's a champ, except he has to get up close and press the flesh. We asked him to stand back a few feet from that," he pointed to a rope strung to hold back the crowd, "but he won't. He'll be right up against it where any psycho could stick a knife in him. But, no need to argue, that's the way he is."
  And indeed, after the address that's what he did, shaking everyone's hand like they were long lost friends. I guess for many of us, having grown up seeing him on the Screen and TV, that was so.
  Howsumever, it was a day I'll never forget. And for a week or so after folks asked about my adventure, guarding Mr Reagan. Trouble was, of all the things I might have been able to comment on, they only asked one thing: "Do you think he dyes his hair?"
 Such is politics in American. How have we lasted so long?

THE BUNNY SUIT

  The New "Bunny" TV show prompted a memory. In the mid-60's, when the Playboy Clubs were still around, I was attending polygraph and interrogation school in New York City. The school was six weeks long and Dick Arther, who owned the school, realized that the attendees were mostly from other states, lonesome for home, and a little entertainment would be welcome. Dick, one of the best in the business, ran a tough school and he was correct in his assumption concerning recreation. So, he let us use his Key to the Playboy Club.
  The club was several stories tall and populated with music, games, and Bunnies! Perfect women, who smiled, were friendly, and not slutty--just nice people. I talked to one, wondering where they found such beautiful, perfect, creatures.
  "You just need a pretty face and decent legs she said. The rest of it is the suit." Each girl wore what was equivalent to a one-piece bathing suit with a fluffy tail on the rear end.
  "When you are accepted, they make a sort of form of your body. The suit is fabricated around it and stuffed to fill in deficient areas, squeezed in to push others to perfect lines. It's solid. You could stand it in a corner, hard to bend over in."
  "Well, it's sure working," I said.
  "Seems to," she answered, then, "you know we're not allowed to date customers--that's an instant firing--but you seem like a nice guy. And if you play your cards right, I might offer you second best, and let you take the suit out after work."
  She was just kidding, of course. 

NOT EVEN A SPORTING CHANCE

  Wanna know something we bet you don't know? Most Cops don't like to write traffic tickets. If they do, they usually join the Highway Patrol or move to some agency unit that specializes in traffic control. To most Cops--unless it's some drunk or reckless driver, or dude with a big mouth that's just begging for one--writing citations just gets in the way of doing real police work.

  There are times, however, under one administration--Chief or Sheriff--or the other, where a specific number of traffic citations were set as a quota you had to meet. That, or other documented proof of activity. I remember one was the "two pieces of paper" quota. At the end of the shift, you had to turn in at least one traffic citation, or two other pieces of "paper." These could be field interrogation reports, driver's warnings, correction cards for faulty equipment, stuff like that.

  Many officers would go get the "pieces of paper" as soon as the shift started to get them out of the way. Trouble was sometimes the activity just wasn't there, so you had to be inventive. One Cop, we'll call Stinkum Shark, had proven methods to generate his traffic ticket.

  One was the "coming out of the sun" method. Shark would hide in an area where folks naturally pick up speed then come "out of sun" to clock them. This was done best at the extremities of day, when the sun was rising or setting. He liked bridges, cause even drivers with cruise control speed up going over a bridge. (Now you know why you see so many Cops lurking near bridges)

  Shark would hid in the glare of the sun, then slam you like a fighter pilot bagging a Jap Zero. (That's where the tactic originated)

  Another shady method was the "push." He'd get behind the last car in a string and "bumper ride" it until it sped up. Causing the one in front of it to speed up, and so on. Then, when one of the cars down the line was pushed to a sufficient illegal speed, it was ticket time.

 Probably his dirtiest trick was the traffic light at 5th Ave North and Goodlette Road. After midnight there was little traffic on this road. The light had a pedestrian crossing switch on it and a good hiding place for the patrol car nearby. Shark would wait until he saw a car approaching in the distance, then run out and throw the crossing switch, causing the light to turn red, shortly. Many drivers, seeing there was no traffic at all, disregarded the light. Until Shark suddenly appeared with his citation book and pen. 

  Actually "Shark" is a composite of several officers. Probably some are still using these tricks--and others--to get their "pieces of paper." And probably these guys should brush up on their ethics or move on to work that requires less integrity. I know that when I caught them doing this crap, I'd help them make that decision.

BUT I HAD THE RIGHT-OF-WAY. . .

 It's common to see in the news that another poor soul has lost their life in a traffic accident. Squashed while riding a bicycle. I remember years ago when the Florida Statutes gave bicycles the same stature in traffic as an automobile. A bad idea that gives some demented pedalers the idea that they can get right in the thick of traffic and cars will respect them. Get serious! They get less respect than a Hummer gives a Smart Car.
 (About that time, the University of Connecticut did a study to determine why car drivers would pull out in front of motorcycles, or otherwise cause them to wreck, when the cycle should've been clearly visible to the motorists. The conclusion was their brain told them to discount the cycle. If there was a collision, they were in little danger. Usually.)

 We would see some with long whip-antenna-looking things, with a red flag flapping in the breeze, happily chugging along at 20 mph in a 45 mph zone. The flag was so they could be identified in traffic. They thought. Trouble was some frustrated dude to the rear of the dude behind the bicycler, could only endure the slow speed so long, and not seeing the real culprit, whiz around car in front, shaking his fist, then being real surprised to see the a pedal-pusher. Some time they were able to stop. Mostly, it was time to call the Cops to bring the sponges and blot up what was left of the amateur Armstrong.

 Now they have bike lanes marked beside many roads. Trouble is they're still on the highway and only marginally safer than being directly in the mix. A sixteen-wheeler flying by can send bike and rider sailing off the road, into the underbrush. Think not? A former Deputy named Kris had himself, his wife, and his huge motorcycle blown off the road like they were a dixie cup.

  Me, I ride on the sidewalk. I get off if a pedestrian shows, then get right back on. It may not be kosher, but you won't find any road burns on my ancient ass.

  We finally gave up on telling bike riders they were fools to ride in traffic. They were unappreciative, with a common retort, "I have a right to be there!"

  We used to reply, "I'll see if I can get Hodges (the funeral home) to engrave that on your headstone. 'He had the right-of -way.'

LIQUID STUPID AND THE LEGAL EAGLE

  We once had a judge--Herbal Smoot we'll call him--that liked to have an evening toddy or two. Or ten. Or twelve. Then he liked to get in his little fastback car and drive home. He lived fairly close to the old PD, at 8th and 8th South, and we'd see him trying to get the horse in the barn without running over all the chickens. I decided to have a talk with him.

  I explained to him that we didn't want to see him--or anyone he encountered--killed and he was welcome to give us a call if he drank too much and needed a ride home.

  "Don't want any special considerations," he said.

 "It wouldn't be," I countered, "we take lotsa folks home." And we did. This was before the personal injury Aholes started suing us if we took the guy home and, after he got there, he got in more trouble. This was a time before total avarice and greed. Now if the cops stop you for excessive drinking, you're going to jail.

 Judge Smoot was noncommittal but did say, "I might give it a try. I certainly don't want to drive when I drink."

  "Just give me a call," I said, "or anyone at the station. They'll be glad to assist you."

 The very next night my phone rang. I recognized the voice. Now Judge Smoot was a brilliant man, an accomplished orator, except when under the spell of liquid stupid. " Smoooosh, here," he'd say or something like that, "and when I drivel I don't drunkel. Or I don't dink when I dunk. Or drunk when I drink. Or something nonsensical like that. Anyway, I got the idea and took him home or arranged for it to happen.

  And we did that for several years. Then, for some reason, he  quit the heavy drinking, and never called again. Maybe it was old age. Maybe a medical reason, but he dropped the excessive part. 

 We were happy for it. We liked Judge Smoot and certainly didn't want to see him the victim of drunkling while dribbling. Or whatever.

  

A REALLY MULTI-PURPOSE BUILDING

 When our family moved here in 1956, my Dad went to work at the post office. He'd transferred from the office in Charleston, WVa. He later became Postmaster.

 The post office, see photo below, was on the corner of Broad Avenue South and 3rd Street, across the street from the building shown--or a semblance of it. This,  now, Old Naples Building has been remodeled and updated but you can still recognize the original in it. Kinda.

 This very versatile structure was also, over the years, City Hall, the library, the original movie theatre and a retail store. Before the quonset hut theatre and Beach Store was built across the street, a projector was set up on a table in one of the rooms, and the latest Hollywood epics were run home-movie style. The building was originally used as the Beach Club "Company Offices."

  Dave Dampier remembers that the area also hosted an airport. Research indicates it was the original Beach Club Golf Club and planes used it as a landing strip.

   The Old Naples Building is kitty-corner from the Broad and 3rd traffic light. This was one of Naples original lights. Since the exclusive 3rd Street shopping area was shut down all summer, the light was turned off during those months. And most of the other time, too.

 Folks didn't like the damn thing. Said we were getting so many durn traffic lights you couldn't drive any longer. It was after all, the third traffic light installed in the City of Naples.

  (The other two were at 4-corners and 5th Ave So and 8th St.)

FAMOUS POLICE SAYINGS

 Cops have said some funny things.  For example, Commissioner Frank Rizzo, of the Philly PD, when asked if reforming people worked said: "Get Serious. Most of them have been arrested so many times they're humpbacked from getting in and out of police cars."
 Florida Sheriff Grady Judd said when asked why his Deputies shot an A-hole, who killed a Deputy, 68 times, "That's all the bullets we had."
  At the Collier County Sheriff's Office Kurt Klutchy said some things, too. Utterances that have become legendary at the SO, handed down like the proverbs from veteran to rookie.
 Kurt's observations are the kind that make you stop, recycle what you've just heard through your mental processor and wonder if that could possibly have been what he said. An example. Kurt was in charge of the Sheriff's vehicles during that time when there was a push to convert we stupid Americans and our primitive measurement system to the rest-of-the-worldwide metric system. This lasted about a week but it did cause automakers to quit defining engine size with cubic inches and switch to cubic centimeters--cc's.

 During that time we had a run of bad vehicles from the factory. Porous motor blocks or something. Kurt allowed that he knew what the real problem was: "These engines ain't been worth a damn since they started puttin' them durn cc's and liters in 'em." And he was serious.

 Then there was the safari. Kent was an avid hunter and decided that he'd murdered enough animals in the USA and would like to try his serial killing skills on the game in Africa. Maybe a nice fat elephant. A lion. A tiger. Wouldn't they look great on his wall? So, he worked up a safari, in the company of another Deputy who liked to hunt, and they headed for the Dark Continent.

  At the end of the very first day, before they'd even even gone in the Jungle, Kurt told his partner he was going home. The partner, astounded, asked why. It seems Kurt was aghast to find out that Africa was a predominantly black country. "I can't take it," he said, "this damn place is fulla n-gg-rs." And he got on the next plane and came home.
 And, oh yeah, Kurt was a Captain with the agency. 

THE ART CRITIC

  Everyone has an opinion on what is good or terrible art. Some say Picasso was a modern Michelangelo, a genius in composition, color, and draftsmanship. To others he was just a con man whose works looked like they could've been painted by a monkey.

  Whatever.

  Once the City decided that the front yard of the newly constructed City Hall needed a piece of art to show folks how cultured we were. Hearing of the City's desire, a kind lady donated an artwork from a local sculptor to fill the need. It was called Homage To The Sun.

  The fella who welded this thing together had a shop in the old house on Goodlette Road where Fire Chief Pearly Riner used to live. The front yard was full of his creations. Most people that drove by thought it was a junk yard and didn't even realize it was an art gallery. Evidently the benefactor and members of the City Council had more eclectic tastes and they thought Homage was a welded  masterpiece.

  In fact, it was a monstrosity about 10 feet tall and sorta looked like--if you could determine that it looked like anything--the lady with her arms reaching skyward that appears on the top of many trophies.

  When the town folk got a look at this thing, most didn't appreciate that they were in the presence of great art. They griped that it was a desecration of the new building and was, in general, just uglying up the place. I was among them. 
  It became a sticky issue that should've caused me to keep my mouth shut. But, that ain't me and when a Naples Daily News reporter asked what I thought about it I said, "Hideous. It looks like Winged Victory on LSD."

 This observation made the front page the next day and caused me to be persona non grata at City Council meetings for several months.

 And got me out of the art critic business, but if you'd like to judge for yourself, it's still there.
  Like the fellar once said "all beauty must fade away but ugly goes all the way to the bone."

YOUR GUESS AS GOOD AS MINE

 In Brent Batten's Naples Daily News column today he speaks of the unreliability of those who would predict the End of Days. Most recently, a buffoon named Harold Camping got it wrong and seems to be the only one who has disappeared.
  Weasels pretending to be purveyors of God's word, have been around since they invented religion. And they do well. Reports have it that Harold collected over 100 million from those who could swallow his pap.
  The most famous rascal I can remember we'll call Offal Rogers. Offal, who talked--literally--out of the side of his mouth amassed zillions. He'd been caught scamming but the faithful didn't seem to care.
  Once, on a national TV show, they brought to the stage--to his surprise--a former employee who pretended to be healed by Offal of being lame over 300 times. He'd glide up front in the wheelchair, Offal would lay hands on him, and he'd jump up and dance. 
  Then another stooge was brought forward who had a giant goiter that Offal made disappear. It actually was a rubber bladder glued to the neck, that Offal would squeeze the air out of when he "laid hands" on him.
 He also peddled "prayer rugs" at $30 a pop that he'd personally knelt on. They were paper, like the mats they put under your plate at The Greasy Spoon.
  Offal was a great predictor, too. There's always room for more.
  And Harold Camping will be seen again. I suggest he join that bunch in Colorado that predict hurricanes. Hell, he could air his asininity every year and still probably be more accurate than those clowns that do it now.

BE BACK SOON

 WE'RE EDITING THE BOOK AND WILL SOON BE FINISHED. THEN, BACK TO THE BLOG.

ASK WARILY

  TV commercials are dominated by folks wanting you to sue someone. Or file bogus claims. Or call someone to help you sue someone or file one. No wonder insurance is cost prohibitive and Social Security is going broke.

 Now, I have no experience with any of the "Ask" someone deals. Far as I know they could be run by benevolent souls just wanting to help humanity. No ulterior motives. Not wanting a piece of the action. But, I do have experience with one that is no longer around. This is how it worked. 

 Wally Weasel got in an automobile accident caused by dozing off. He was driving a sports car and weaving down the road. An oncoming driver tooted his horn at the wobbling Wally,  causing him--because he was awakened from a sound sleep--to lose control of his Triumph TR3. He drove across a lawn and crashed into the house that belonged where Wally didn't.

  In a few days, an ambulance chasing firm gave Wally a call. He told Wally he could help him make a few bucks. Wally explained that the accident was his fault, and he was not injured. The only person who suffered was the home owner, who was knocked out of bed when Wally crashed into his bedroom.

  Mr Slim, from the "helper" firm told Wally that fault was just a word, a matter of perception that could be "adjusted." He was so persistent he signed Wally up for the program. 

 The program involved Wally going to Slim's picked doctor who told Wally where he hurt, when to say "Ow" when he was poked in the right spot. He also gave Wally a series of pain shots that were really just vitamin shots and a nice donut to wear when he went outside.

  Then, a lawyer, explained to Wally that he'd been so shaken from the accident that he didn't remember what actually happened. The lawyer told him what did, an absolute lie, involving being forced off the road.

 After a few months, Slim's doctor and lawyer received a nice check from an insurance company, Wally's wallet fattened, too, and Mr Slim's company took a percentage.

  So, I'm not saying today's "Ask" companies operate in the same fashion, but I'd be particular who I called. Or, you might become a slimy weasel yourself.

WHATEVER WORKS

   At a Detective's school at the University of Georgia, I met a personable cop from Atlanta named Jake. Jake was of the Jewish persuasion. Kinda. He said his family were all serious about the faith but he was a slacker. Said he wasn't even welcome at synagog. 

 Over some excellent Jack Daniels black one night, we were discussing religion, usually a bad practice--especially when drinking liquid stupid. I'd noticed that he had a pendant hanging around his neck that depicted a Star of David. I asked him why, if he wasn't that serious about his religion.

  "Not taking any chances I might be wrong," Jake said. Then he flipped over the medal and on the other side was a Christian Cross. He smiled again. "Like I said, I'm not taking any chances."

  I laughed. 

 "And," he continued with a smile, "it seems to work. So far I haven't been bitten by even one vampire."

 I recalled that he favored bacon with his breakfast. "No problem," he said. "A priest can pass his hand over tap water and make it holy water. I pass mine over bacon and it becomes a nice Gefilte fish."

 I learned early on to be forgiving of religions folks who'd "backslid", as they say back home. One of my favorite uncles was a self-ordained minister. Trouble was, every few years he'd gather up a pretty member of the choir, grab the building fund, and abscond to Mexico. He'd stay there until the fund was exhausted, then come home.

  Incredibly, the church always took him back. He had a stock redemption speech he made to them that worked every time. "The Devil is alway working," he'd say. "And if he can corrupt a man of God like myself, what chance do you have without me?"

 Whatever works.

TERRIFIED

   Naples Daily News columnist Brent Batten has ruined my day. In today's entry, he lists the Colorado State University annual hurricane prediction. It opines that the chances of a hurricane hitting Collier County are there, but small. That's what has me terrified. Their record of accuracy is a joke, usually inversely proportional to actual events. They say less, it's more.  Even with their mid-season tuneups, their accuracy trails former National Enquirer physic Jean Dixon.

  Once the News--I believe--published a hurricane likelihood survey taken from folks on the street and compared it, at season's end, to the Colorado expert's guesses. The street folks guesses were more accurate.

  Years ago at a hurricane preparedness seminar given by the National Hurricane Center the former director, Dr. Neil Frank, told us, "Anyone who tries to predict the weather more than 24 hours in advance is either a fool or a charlatan."

  So, "slight chance" of a hurricane in Collier? It's down to Home Depot for plywood for this ol' hoss.

LONG TIME NO SEE

   Sorry to be so negligent on the blog entries but I'm putting my book together and it takes all my spare time. Hope to be finished, soon. gdy

LIES, LIES, LIES

 The storm over the validity of polygraphs has raged for years. Reviewing the history of the instrument, you can see why. There is a lotta deception in the deception business.
  As one story goes, interrogators in WWII made alterations to their polygraphs to squeeze the truth out of Japanese prisoners of war. They altered the ink well, that fed the chart pens, so that the examiner could, on the sly, switch from black ink to red ink during the exam.

  During the preliminaries, the examiner would caution that as long as the subject told the truth, the track would be written in black ink. If, however, the subject lied the tracing would be written in blood--sucked from the attachment on their arm. (The cardio cuff like the one used to check blood pressure)

  Then, when the examiner suspected the prisoner was lying, he'd switch to the hidden red ink reservoir and the "blood" tracing would appear. The customer was warned that if he continued to prevaricate the polygraph would suck him dry.

  No one's stupid enough to fall for that gag you say? It worked with such effectiveness that it was used throughout the war. 

 Chester Keene reminds us that you didn't have to go to the Orient to encounter "lie-detector" shenanigans. There were some--in candor I must plead guilty to this--that would seat a prisoner in the front seat of the patrol car and tell them a field lie-detector test was going to be conducted. Then, the cop would wrap the mike cord from the police radio around the subject's arm.

  The testee was told that if he lied, the red light on the lie-detector would come on. This light was the transmit indicator, that came on anytime the radio was in talk mode. In this case, the cop would hide the mike in his palm and key the transmit button when he suspected his subject was lying. And more times than not, it worked. And on folks that should know better.

 Next, some of the shady techniques used that caused Teddy Kennedy to get a law passed put a stop to it.

A BAD SPELL

  This is from Dave Dampier who remembers the days before Spell Check on computers and some of our cops who couldn’t spell sugar if they had a mouthful.

 One of my early supervisory duties at NPD was to review and approve the written reports produced in the preceding 24 hours.   These were typed, with a carbon copy, or later NCR. Both were a pain to correct yet we demanded the best written report possible because they were public records and could be used in court and were seen by the "newsies", who loved to tease us about some of our hobbled Hemingways.

 I will say that the majority of our officers were good at meeting the report's factual and information requirements. But, some had spelling ability deficiencies that required sleeping with a Funk & Wagnall’s.  

 Minor misspellings were usually easily corrected and in most cases I just wrote over a misspelled word or two. But, occasionally I ran into a composition that just would not pass muster.  

 We had a primo investigator who went on to a successful career at the Collier County Sheriff’s Office. One of the best! A virtuoso at detective work. He had, however, a tin ear when it came to spelling--just had no feel of how a word should be spelled. If we would misspell a word kitshen, he might try cittshund. In all other respects his reports were perfect. 

 There was another officer I recall who always “Pulled the car to the crub”.  He may have been dyslexic, but we didn’t know what that was in those days.  Another favorite, “Arrived on the seen and fownd”.

  These were minor things compared to “Officer Fonicks” who we hired as a trained, seasoned, and experienced officer from up north. Officer Fonicks was repeatedly given the task to re-write reports due to numerous misspellings, inadequate sentence structure, and just plain inability to convey facts in written form.  One time I sent a report back to him for re-write and that afternoon he was seen in the squad room with his wife at his side, struggling with the task.  He later brought the re-written report to my office and I had difficulty reading same. When I tried to point out some of his errors and omissions he said “But Lieutenant I just can’t do it”. 

 My immediate and, admittedly, off-hand response was “Well Bob, I would advise you to seek another line of work”.   The next I heard of Officer Fonicks was when I tried to read his resignation letter.   He was with us but a short time--just a few months. Guess he decided they weren't so picky at the Cincinatti PD so he went back home.

 Editor's note: My stuff is spell checked by the computer, my wife, Sandy, and readers. And still things get spelt wrong. 

A CLOG IN THE COGS

  Another example of not being particular about what you say, involved a guy we'll call Rick Janovich, one of the best cops at the NPD. Always there when you needed him, knowledgeable, tough when he had to be, and gentle when he should be. I hated to lose him. Especially, when I found out the reason.

 I was working late one night and heard a scuffle in the hallway entrance by the jail. Investigating, I saw Rick picking up a "customer" from the floor. When Rick saw me, he started dusting off the prisoner like he was a new hat that had blown in the dirt. "He tripped," Rick said.

 Listening to the A-hole's rant, I could see how a loudmouth like that might "trip" on the way to jail. I went back to work.

 After he'd booked his prisoner, Rick dropped by the office. Worried, I guess, about what I'd seen he asked, "How am I doing?"

  I gave him an honest answer: "Rick," I said, "you are one of the main cogs in my big machine." Rick frowned, turned and left my office. A week later he resigned and joined the CCSO.

 Years later, when we were both working for the CCSO, I asked him why he'd resigned from the NPD. Incidently, it hadn't hurt him, since he was a Lieutenant with the Sheriff.

  "You as much as told me I had no future there," Rick said, "so I left."

  "No future?" I said, "you were one of our best officers."

  "Then why did you tell me I was clogging up your machine?"

  "Rick," I said, not quite believing what I'd heard, "that was a compliment. I said you were the main cog in our machine. A key element."

  "Oh," Rick said and never mentioned it again.
  Causes you to wonder how many relationships are destroyed because one persons doesn't hear what the other really said.

A LITERAL TRANSLATION

  Generally, it's a good rule to be particular about what you say. An off-hand remark, taken literally, can have devastating effects. Such was the case when my daughter, Lori, was about ten-years-old and was having trouble with a bully in the neighborhood. She told me the A-hole, an older, bigger boy was trying to "grab" her.

 I told her I couldn't be there to protect her all the time and she should do the following. First, stay away from him. Second, if he continued, to let me know and I'd straighten him out. Third, if he actually did grab her, to find the biggest thing she could and hit him over the head with it. The next day she used the third method.

 Sean and Kenny, her brothers, and Lori came running into the house." He grabbed me," Lori said," and I found something to hit him with."

  "What was that?" I asked.

 "This," she said, displaying a length of 1" galvanized pipe. "And I hit him on the head and he fell over in the ditch beside the road and started to bleed."

 I rushed to the scene, wondering if she'd killed him and running the headlines through my head: "Chief's daughter takes his advice and bludgeons another child."

  I breathed a sigh of relief when we arrived in the combat zone and the victim wasn't in sight. We went down the street to his home where we found him on the front porch with his father, his head wrapped in a bloody towel. Expecting the worst I asked how he was.

  "He'll live," the gruff father said. "He's a dumbass, you know, and best place to hit him, and not do any damage, is in the head. Nothing there."

  But, he was smart enough not to mess with my daughter, Lori, again.

  

SOFT SUMMER BREEZE

  Good Ol' Dave Johnson penned this jewel.
 It was in the late 70's and I'd been working on an international heavy-equipment theft ring working out of Golden Gate. A prosecutor, from the east coast, had come over to help out.  On his introductory visit, we had some comedy I'll never forget.
  Prosecutor Ken was a big, tall, macho guy. He was obviously a man's kinda man.  I invited him to walk over to the "Blind-Man's" coffee shop for a cup--a sightless person operated the coffee shop in the government complex for years.  
  Looking for something to drink, he spied a bottle of ice tea on a lower shelf and bent over to get it.  When he did, it sounded like someone emptied the magazine on a Burp-Gun.  He'd ripped his pants.  Quickly straightening and red-faced, he asked me how bad it was.  On inspection, I damn near fell over--his entire right naked butt cheek was sticking out in broad daylight!  Choking back laughter, I told him he was in deep doo-doo.  And the worst part was, being a warm day we'd both left our suit jackets in the office!  He had nothing to cover up his now exposed caboose on the long walk back to my office.
  We decided the best thing to do was for him to hold up what was flappin' and for me to walk close-step behind him.   We could get things sewed up back at the office with my secretary Sandy's help.  So here we go, on a busy day at the courthouse, him scooting along with his hand on his ass and me shuffling 6" behind, like some Three Stooges "You're-in-the-Army-now" skit. We were quite a sight.
  He explained that he never wore underwear because the last pair he had worn had rotted off him in the jungles of Vietnam.  He was a good guy and I felt sorry for him.  When I could keep a straight face.
  Sandy stitched his problem up and we went on to put several players in jail, as well as run a few more out of the country.
  I wonder if he ever started wearing underwear again?

INSTANT FIELD SOBRIETY TEST

  One of the things about being a Cop that always appealed to me was the uncertainty. Other jobs, when you go to work you have a pretty good idea of what the day has in store. Not so in the Cop business. Your duties can involve anything from guarding the President of the United States to being careful not to get in the middle--and killed--in a domestic disturbance call. Or, you might slap yourself in the face and drink a gallon of coffee to keep awake during a long, uneventful, night. And these nights are the worst.

  All Cops find ways to deal with the boredom. Dark humor is usually a cornerstone to these survival techniques. If you can get a laugh out of it, how bad can it be?

  Since drunks get on my nerves in a hurry, I had to invent ways to inject a little humor into the encounters. One was an instant field sobriety test, that although unconventional, was indicative of the liquid stupid level in the customer. No walking the line, saying the alphabet backwards, or touching the fingertip to the nose. Just repeat this simple phrase:

 "I'm not a fig plucker, or a fig plucker's son. But I'll pluck figs 'til the fig plucker's come."

 A drunk will become an instant animal molester. And you'll be chuckling 'til your watch ends.

DAYS OF WINE AND HOSES

  Dave Johnson sends this tale of hard drinkin' Investigators--whether they could hold their liquor or not. Their names have been changed to protect the inebriated. As Dave tells it. . .

  Larry and Durk were having an early Happy Hour. Cops love Happy Hour! You have a selection of free munchies and drinks are cheaper--sometimes free.

  In walks a very successful local defense lawyer, we'll call Elton Ego, who proceeds to make the mistake of pulling up a chair to holster-sniff.  Lawyer Elton ordered a drink and offered to buy Larry and Durk what ever they are having.  Our heros, being stalwart, incorruptible public guardians, immediately ordered doubles of the good stuff.  

  Elton, settled in, apologizing for the sleazy job he had and explaining that you didn't take what he said in court personally, it was just his job. Larry and Durk commiserated until Elton excused his self, saying he had to call home. Elton, you see, was afflicted with the dreaded disease; Pusieus Whipitus. And being deathly afraid of his wife caused him to leave the table every 20 minutes to call her and assure that he was being a good boy.

  It took Larry and Durk one of Doug Hendry's "New York Seconds" to get the hint and start ordering doubles--on Lawyer Elton's tab--every time he went to check-in with the boss.  After the second round, the waitress got sugar plums over the prospect of a big tip and started bringing, without cue, ever stronger doses of Who Hit John.

  Now Larry, being older (with a more experienced liver), was able to hang with the incredible rate of consumption.  Durk, on the other hand, was a notoriously "cheap drunk" and was glassy-eyed by the third round.  This circus went on for a couple hours, until Durk got up to use the Head and promptly walked into a pillar.  He excused himself (to the pillar) and retired to the Men's lavatory where Larry found him sometime later, demonstrating how he could sleep, while standing up, at the urinal.  

  All the fun and games ended when Lawyer Elton got orders from headquarters to get his booty home ASAP.  When he got the bill, for the alcoholic hose job, he almost swooned.

 Larry did the sensible thing and took Durk to a very early breakfast to try to sober him up.  This not working, Larry did the decent thing for his beloved junior partner, and took him home.  Of course, Larry was decent but no fool. So, not wanting to encounter Mrs. Durk, he dumped his pal on the front lawn and peeled out before his car could be ID'd.  

  Thus were the days of old, when good whiskey over-ruled good sense, every darn time. Much like today.

NPD 4TH PLATOON FEB 1972

   The NPD 4th Platoon standing tall on the old City Council Building steps. Pictured, from left to right, front row, Gary Coopersmith, Chester Keene, Terry Massey. Back row, Darwin Muir, Ken Burdette, Frank Baughman, Mike Ashley, John Lester.